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by Jane Lang
Lying on folded damask, the spoils of the day
shimmered in death, still regal those two majestic
princes—no longer with a kingdom. Mrs. Beasley
will soon make short work of them, stripping
feathers one-by-one, erasing the last vestiges
of their reign. The crown jewels around their
once-warm necks yet glimmer, shine, call out
as sun once bounced off mottled, iridescent
teal, ebony, tree trunk chocolate browns.
Now headed for the cook-pot along with
their loyal serfs, who swore to protect them
with their lives, and did so.
Those small blue-grey, lovesick doves